As when in some dim jewel-crusted shrine,
A maze of shaft and scroll-work, swings on high
A lamp whose gleams, flooding the glories nigh,
Leave vistas vaguely rich ; around it shine
Responsive sparks of brilliance opaline
That down the scented dusk melt, glow, and die—
Tint chasing tint in soft light harmony—
As seems the flame, faint-stirred, to wax or pine :
So in the sonnet, where the hoarded treasure
Of poet's mind lies hidden, where is wrought
By heart and brain, as fire and hammer, nought
But strong and graceful, welded truth and pleasure—
How brightly answer beauties beyond measure
The flash of fancy in this shrine of thought !
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